


Quarantine

by Emma_Lynch



Series: The Isn't It Obvious series [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: F/M, Humour, John knowing most of it, Love, Mycroft knowing it all, Sexual Tension, Sherlock in Denial, Stand Alone, Strong Molly, Texting, admitting feelings, developing characters - Freeform, first person POV, morgue, potential life-threatening pandemic, response to prompt by Conchepcion, trapped together
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-01
Updated: 2015-02-06
Packaged: 2018-03-10 00:10:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 8,457
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3269429
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Emma_Lynch/pseuds/Emma_Lynch
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This is not linked to my usual universe and is stand alone, in response to the following prompt by Conchepcion on Tumblr:</p><p>"Sherlock and Molly don’t get on so much post-hlv. During one of the evenings Sherlock finally gets Molly to work with him they get exposed to some disease and put under quarantine. Ensue the two bickering it out behind locked rooms for almost a week. Someone write it."</p><p>So, I did write it, and here it is.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Where we are now

**Author's Note:**

  * For [conchepcion](https://archiveofourown.org/users/conchepcion/gifts).



One track mind, one track heart  
If I fail, I'll fall apart  
Maybe it is all a test  
Cause I feel like I'm the worst  
So I always act like I'm the best.

(Marina and the Diamonds, `Oh, no!")

* * *

 

Killing a man does something to you.

It changes you.

You can never shrug back on the mantle of the man you were before you took the life of another.

I contemplate this notion as I shrug on my coat, dark and heavy – a burden of care upon my shoulders. If I could chose to, I would explain away my current melancholy by referencing the killing of Charles Augustus Magnussen. I shot an unarmed man in cold blood and there can be no excusing of such a desperate and God-like act of execution, and no excuses do I want, or need. Deep down, however, I am not sorry enough for it to explain the deadness that now haunts my days and nights; the emptiness when I awake that a garbled request for help from Lestrade or Gregson do little to assuage.

A baby has been born; rejoicing (naturally) has taken place. Crimes have been solved and hordes of grateful ex-blackmailees have poured forth on a fairly (if irritatingly) regular basis to both thank and reward me. Mycroft ( _dear Mycroft_ ) himself almost shed a tear as I listlessly (if remarkably skilfully) exposed the highly organised prankster using the image of Moriarty to strike all shades of fear into the establishment …

But all for nought.

Inside I am hollow and inexorably joyless and I do not know why.

I hate not knowing.

**~x~**

I knew it was going to be a shit day when the Hazmat suits arrived.

Sanderson was gleeful, naturally. He is such a poor excuse for a pathologist; he relishes the chance of something like a deadly potential epidemic allowing him to neglect more paperwork.

Oh God, he`s holding one up to himself and I can actually visualise a little thought bubble above his head as he pictures himself in the Dustin Hoffman role in ` _Outbreak_ `. He`s grinning and nodding at Sarah (my favourite morgue assistant) and I know I`m right.

He`s nodding at me, still smiling and I am reminded of my granny singing a childhood song: ` _Never smile at a crocodile…`_

"Try not to look so glum, Dr Hooper – the virus is highly unlikely to have reached our shores from Patagonia. There are highly effective strategies in place at the borders – this is just Mike being a touch dramatic!"

_Don't be taken in by his welcome grin …_

"Oh, I`m not worried about that; just this mountain of paperwork which tells me I won`t be making it back in time for X Factor tonight."

Really, could I BE more obvious? Seemingly I could, since he`s now merrily chatting away to Sarah (Joanne has also been roped in when she was on the way to the coffee machine for me) and demonstrating, rather creepily, how to put on a filter mask. Idiot.

I put down my lab notes with a clatter onto the counter, uncaring if such a dramatic gesture is acknowledged or not, and take myself into the tiny lab storeroom, where the smell of powdered latex gloves and anti-bacterial hand wash has an instant and holistic calming effect.

_Molly Hooper, you are officially one miserable little cow. Sanderson is a nightmare; workload is a nightmare; potential outbreak of disabling and potentially fatal new disease – nightmare, but … but. You have had these issues (or similar ones) in your life with depressing regularity over the years; you are known for your ability to face off problems and difficult situations with a tight (yet sincere) smile and a jaunty swish of your silken pony tail. You are a calming influence; a go-to girl when trauma strikes; you can often make a silk purse out of a very nasty sow`s ear, so what the hell, Molly Hooper? What the devil is wrong with you these days?_

I close my eyes against the fluorescent strip of the over-packed cupboard and press my face against the stacked piles of rolled up hand towels – soothing; calming. The wrapping crinkles and the softness gives way as it nestles and caresses my aching head. I feel my cheeks are hot and possibly bright with colour and know, despite the Hazmat suits, that I am not ill – but I am a little bit sick.

 _Miseria. Dolour. Luctus_. Latin is a dead language, so I enjoy using it to describe my sorry, _deaded_ little soul.

I slapped his slack-jawed, heavy-eyed face. I slapped it several times, and each time my anger had increased until it bubbled into my throat and I had to stop slapping him, because I was going to cry. He ruminatively and sluggishly ( _drug-addled_!) felt his jaw and threw a barb ( _I probably deserved_ ) referencing my failed attempt at a normal romance. His beautiful eyes rolled over me, cold and disdainful ( _drug addled?_ ) My hand lay, limp and stinging at my side; a smarting resonance firing unwelcome information upwards, via my synapses, into my consciousness:

_The rough scrape of stubble, hard planes of cheekbone beneath my hand (moulding it, curving its progression), warm (hot) skin – feverish? (drug-addled.) burning the pads of my fingertips and searing that touch into my memory, skin so soft and warm and rough and smooth and burning …_

I open my eyes to see a blur of blue hand towel, clouding my vision and crinkling its packaging against my own fevered brow.

Molly Hooper, you are so fucked.

**~x~**

"So, how would you normally ` _narrow it down_ `? Sixteen samples and one murderer, Sherlock."

John Watson appears irked. I attribute his short temper and inability to logically parse my options to sleep deprivation and sexual frustration (newborn baby and all that accompanies it) therefore I am patient with him.

"My distillations are inadequate, John, since a centrifuge and homogeniser of a more industrial standard will be required to fully render down the samples. Mr Talisker remains free until we have suitable cause."

An almost comedic expulsion of air escapes my former flat-mate as he casts himself across his old chair, seemingly losing patience with my (more than adequate) explanation barely had it left my lips.

"Sherlock, Bart`s has been your second home for all the years I have known you – _I met you there_ for God`s sake. Get down to the lab and sweet talk Molly Hooper and – "

"No!"

Unbidden and without warning, the word swells forth and stops him in his tracks. Tiredness forgotten, John looks keenly across at me and I see unspoken questions in his eyes. I do not welcome these questions.

"I cannot afford the time to traipse across London on the merest of missions. I will find a way."

"Sherlock – "

My face burns and I feel a ridiculous ache from within, but I manage to face him down.

"John, I will find a way."

And he lets it go.

**~x~**


	2. Trespasser

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A full morgue makes work for idle hands ...

Sarah Gnezere, tall, majestic and incredibly snarky in her impatient Kenyan beauty sweeps past my desk, slapping down an A4 sheet absolutely jam-packed with typescript. I have neither the time nor the inclination to read it.

" _Précis_ it for me Saz?"

"You`re kidding me Hooper? You too important to read your own memos now?"

My eyes (I have been told) are one of my most endearing features (` _Molly Hooper is a Bush Baby`_ is written in marker pen in the men`s toilets, or so they say …) and I look up at the statuesque beauty in her lab coat and give her _winsome_ – from both barrels.

"I`m painfully busy with Mr Mearson`s blood work – just give me the gist of it, lovely."

She rolls her eyes, but I know I`ve won.

"Just more directives on the _Cordolium_ Virus. Guidelines and symptoms to look out for. Mike says no cases in UK yet, but we gotta be vigilant in our line of work, huh?"

"Symptoms?"

"Yellowing eyes; swelling in lips and tongue; hectic flush, and of course a hugely enlarged heart muscle – not much to go on, but got to report any bodies looking a bit – unusual."

I shake my head. This very morning I autopsied a gentleman who was hiding a condom full of coins in his rectum, but what would I know of ` _unusual_ `?

**~x~**

**Tuesday 10** **th** **April**

**10.16 am**

**St. Bart`s Mortuary**

Well, it`s happened. We are full. If I could put up a red carpet, rope and burly doorman at the entrance of the Morgue, he would most definitely be refusing admission, since we have no drawer unoccupied – no-one else is coming in. There has been no natural disaster, no explosion nor terror attack and we still have no epidemic of any kind, but the fact remains that our morgue runneth over, and there is no room at the inn.

What is making matters ever so slightly worse is the current staff shortage. Sarah has been struck down with horrendous toothache (eating Nutella with your finger straight from the jar will one day catch up with you) and the fabulous Joanne has been seconded (stolen) by Sanderson until he`s finished his cataloguing (which will be _never_ , judging from previous observations and deductions – _oh will you just listen to me …_ ). Mike Stamford has been called away on a family emergency ( _if you are going to put your Houdini-like mother in law in a home, do pick one with adequate window locks and without an open door policy_ ) and at least two pathologists from the second floor are attending a big, fabulous wedding (to which I have not received an invitation – good. Hate weddings).

So, you can surely see my problem. Chock full with the non-living; _less full_ of the living, working and helping type of people. Autopsies and sampling (not to mention police reports and a shocking, swaying tower-block of filing) await a skeleton staff of two – myself and an Anatomical Pathological Technologist (APT) by the name of Glen who sucks mint imperials, wears Fair Isle and develops hives when speaking to women. As Tuesdays go, this looks like being one of the best _ever_.

The creaking of a trolley (the blue wheeled one – always squeaks) heralds the progress of Glen along the corridor, bringing me (I consult my clipboard) Mr George Whinstead – age 63, suspected anaphylaxis from ingestion of … lentils? Unlucky. Imagine avoiding them for sixty three years, only to succumb at your daughter`s wedding? Who serves lentils at a wedding anyway? Oh dear, what has happened to me? I used to have the appropriate degree of compassion, and now I have – well, I have … _less_. The doors bang open, zipped body bag presenting first, but instead of a diminutive, peppermint-breathed, itchy and blotchy APT pushing the trolley, I am left almost winded and gasping, as if all the air has been sucked from the room when I see that Mr Whinstead is being attended on his final journey by another … by a six foot, lanky, dark-haired, coat swishing ex-junkie; by a breaker of promises, a user of natures that are good, a chancer and a ne`er-do-well; by a beautifully ruined genius idiot who makes my armpits prickle in the unsexiest way you can imagine –

"Sherlock Holmes, what the hell are you doing in my lab?"

**~x~**

How very irritating.

The voice of John Watson ( _in my ear, at my side, in our flat, at a crime scene, for so many years_ ) presents itself even in his absence (baby-related activities are clearly taking a heavy toll on his assistance with the work) and as Molly Hooper and myself circle the prone corpse of George Whinstead ( _murdered, almost positive_ ), his words are resonating in my head and bouncing around my cerebellum:

" _This was a bad idea, Sherlock. She is still angry with you. Ambushing her in her place of work won`t win you any favours. Leave it a while longer…"_

I shake my head to rid it of _Imaginary-John_ , earning myself a sharp look from the pony-tailed woman carrying the clipboard.

"So this is you, refusing to leave then? I can have you removed, Sherlock, like a – a – "

( _Tattoo? Mole? Extraneous freckle? Is that what she sees? A melanoma, needing removal?)_

" – like a trespasser. This isn't your workplace, it`s mine, and I have got quite a lot of work to do and not much help to do it."

" _Bad idea, Sherlock, I told you …"_ Shut up, Imaginary-John! Shut up!

I already know she is over-worked and has not been sleeping well. Her mother is visiting and Molly does not like the lunches she makes for her daughter every day, but she won`t tell her. Molly has been getting off the bus two (three?) stops earlier in an attempt to `be healthy` by briskly walking the remainder of the journey. She re-applies her deodorant on arrival. Molly cares what people think about her, even people she doesn't like ( _like Sanderson and the unpleasant letch serving on the hot counter in the canteen – come to think of it, I may need to have a few words with him …_ ). She has taken her cat to the vets this morning and is worried about him, since he hasn't been eating …

"Sherlock, I am serious and you aren't even listening. You have to go, before Glen comes back. We need to get started on Mr Whinstead`s autopsy."

"I am 97% certain he was murdered."

She forgets about her cat and stares at me; it is not a friendly stare, and I am a little a-feared of what her expression will be when I tell her I have sent Glen home.

" _Bloody brilliant move, Sherlock."_

Shut up, John.

**~x~**


	3. The Assistant

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> At your service, Molly Hooper ...

He`s not high, at least.

John Watson has called by on several errands and always goes out of his way to mention how Sherlock is ` _off the sauce_ ` and how ` _focused_ ` he is on his work. This certainly seems true as I see him positively vibrating in his desire to examine the body and (probably) prove just how right he is. Again. He looks tired and drawn I notice, as I pretend not to look, and pretend to hate him. Dark circles beneath those eyes, which themselves aren't as bright and pervasive as usual, and those cheekbones are waxen, pale and too close to the surface.

"You need to get down with the nutrition now John has left, Sherlock. You`ll waste away like one of those Victorian heroines on your chaise longue."

I cannot keep the snark out of my voice, and it cheapens my words, making them spiteful and childish. _I am_ spiteful and childish. And embarrassed.

But he doesn't appear to hear me and is holding the wrist of a dead man – my dead man, actually.

"Look, lividity around here – " he points. " – and here. Ligatures. I believe – " clear eyes look up and lock onto mine and my treacherous heart decides it will leap in my chest " – that Mr Whinstead was restrained at his daughter`s wedding venue and force fed the lentils or pulses that induced anaphylaxis. His _Epipen_ was found on his person, untouched."

"Why would someone do that?"

He is running his fingers along the hairline and behind the ears of the body and I suddenly see the faint scarring of a facelift and botox needle marks.

"Wealthy man, younger wife, new lover – turgid and predictable, but a tale as old as time." He zips the bag and takes out his mobile, immediately and rapidly texting with long, white fingers. Suddenly, Sherlock Holmes finishes, snaps shut his phone and sexually assaults me with his eyes again, this time with a sudden smile for added reverberations.

"I must thank you for allowing me this access, Molly Hooper."

"You didn't really leave me much choice. You just kind of swoop in and – have your way with – _everything_ …" I put the clipboard down, since all the fight seems to have gone out of me and I`m just a wee bit tired. This sparring; this cold shouldering – it`s just exhausting and as I look up at him again, I see an uncertain look pass across his face and I know he feels the weight of it too.

"It – it`s ok, Sherlock. I`m ok now. I`m not angry with you now. Not anymore."

He inclines his head, as if assessing a rare type of lichen on the north-facing side of a yew tree ( _I speak from experience here_ ) and appears to make some kind of decision before speaking.

"Molly, please listen before making any erroneous choices which you will undoubtedly later regret – would you like my assistance in the lab today? I have no other cases and am avoiding visitations by small infants and broody landladies. You will appreciate that I never offer to do anything unless I absolutely wish to do it."

**~x~**

As I snap on latex gloves and prepare to assume some serious penance in assisting Molly Hooper for the day (Lestrade and his decapitated art dealer can just wait, as can Mycroft`s Cabinet leak) I give a little inward smirk in the general direction of _Imaginary-John Watson_ :

" _See, I knew it would work. Ye of little faith, John Watson - shame on you for your lack of belief in my methods and application of them."_

Annoyingly, _Imaginary-John_ seems fated to have the last word once more:

" _You aren't out of the woods yet, mate. Don't count your chickens, and always remember that a stitch in time saves nine."_

Damn him, and damn that he knows how much I loathe euphemistic mixed metaphors with an almost murderous passion.

**~x~**

**Tuesday 10** **th** **April**

**4.45pm**

**St. Bart`s Mortuary**

It was less than twenty minutes into the first episode of ` _Autopsies With Detectives_ ` that I was rather disgruntled to realise that Sherlock Holmes would have made a bloody good pathologist. I insisted on doing the incisions (and decisions!) myself, but I could see he was almost as deft and sure as any medic or even surgeon I had ever worked alongside. His chemistry was also aggravatingly adept and extremely intuitive. He was a natural.

"These slides, Molly – I have arranged them in order of speed of reaction to aid analysis – I do hope that is satisfactory."

"Molly, I have taken the liberty of re-calibrating the main centrifuge. Whoever used it last (I am surmising it was Sanderson judging by the ham-fisted, simian-style adjustments) did not allow for the increase in water pressure when the machine is full. Idiot."

"I have completed the skin samples and drafted my findings. I assume you would care to write them up yourself. If not, I have no issue in transcribing them."

After several hours of this almost surreal behaviour, I decide that Sherlock Holmes and I need to have a little chat. I consider shutting myself in the stock cupboard whilst I do it, so he can`t affect my focus with the sheer power of his eyes and cheekbones, but reject this notion due to the theories he would undoubtedly postulate to explain my behaviour. For whatever bizarre reason, this day I am the boss of Sherlock, and I need to retain that higher power for as long as possible. I simply cannot run the risk of applying extra lipstick and running out for his coffee – old habits can sometimes die hard.

"Sherlock, can you tell me what is going on here?"

"You are suturing a chest cavity with adequate skill and precision. I am making notes and about to fetch us coffee – "

"Stop it."

"I don't understand. Is my note-making inadequate? Or do you fear my lack of skill in coffee-brewing?"

I cut the final stitch and pull off my gloves, throwing them into the pedal bin.

"I really do appreciate your help, Sherlock. We have made excellent progress today – more than I could have hoped to have made with Glen, or with anyone really. It – it just isn't – usual."

"Usual?"

"You don't do this kind of thing. Giving up your time in such a – a selfless manner," I stumble, since his wide-eyed innocence has given way to a more familiar smirk.

"Are you hinting I am selfish, Molly Hooper?"

"We – ell … it wouldn't be beyond the realms of my experience anyway …" The smirk widens.

"You are suspicious of my motives? You think I will require a _quid pro quo_?"

"Has been known, Sherlock …"

"Isn`t it obvious, Molly?"

My face is suddenly and mortifyingly aflame – it is _burning_ , I can`t even tell you –

"Well – "

He steps forward and I feel the air displace around me and a tremor start in my left knee ( _how can you smell like that in a place like this – how is it allowed?)_

"I`m saying _sorry_ , Molly Hooper." He is looking down at me and I am close enough to see a purple thread poking out from the third button down on his shirt – he should really get onto that. "You trusted me and I let you down. I did not like it when you stopped being my friend. I did not care for the withdrawal of – you."

A tap drips and the refrigeration unit hums into the silence of the afternoon and the highly charged ions bashing around this moment in time. My heart hammers (traitor) in my ears and he fills up the light above my head and it feels like we are the only ones left alive in a post-apocalyptic world (which, in a way, we are).

"Sherlock – "

And the shrill squeal of the internal phone rents the air like a thousand birds rising from a lake, and he starts harshly, like I`ve slapped him all over again.

**~x~**


	4. Incubation

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It`s all about the satsumas - and the loins, of course.

**Tuesday 11** **th** **April**

**6 a.m.**

**St. Bart`s Mortuary**

I shift for what seems like the millionth time on the poor excuse for a sofa, longing for a medical student bunk room (which seemed so hellish at the time) where at least a bed was bed shaped, regardless of the amount of time you spent in it. I am wearing my underwear – I would not relinquish my bra and pants, regardless of biohazardous outbreaks (potential or otherwise), but I suspect I will soon have to commit them to the furnace with the remainder of my clothes and don the dreaded Hazmat Couture ( _so on-trend in Paris this season, darling_ ) like Sherlock already has.

Sherlock.

Oh good God, he shed his clothes to the furnace without a second`s contemplation, allowing me no time to turn away and shield my eyes from that carved alabaster musculature that will haunt my consciousness for the rest of my days. The burning of several hundred pounds worth of designer wardrobe would have given me more than a few seconds heartache, despite the unfortunate and recently acquired knowledge that one of our corpses is suspected of carrying the _Coridolium_ Virus, fresh from the disease ridden plains of sunny Patagonia. I should have suspected something after removing the coin-filled condom from that John Doe. Diego Paulo, a smuggler of rare coins and unfortunately for both him and us, a very likely candidate to be _Patient Zero_ for the virus. Congratulations Diego! You managed to smuggle in much more than a few dubloons. Fantastic.

Mike (lovely Mike) has assured me that it is only a _suspected_ case of _CoriVirus_ (short version – catchy, no?) but until further (and time consuming) observations and samplings have been performed on Mr Paulo, we will not be sure. How fortunate for everyone who isn't me (or Sherlock) that I am on hand to undertake these tests myself – a _captive pathologist_ if you will – and my own results will decide my fate. Poetic. Prosaic. Bloody typical, Molly Hooper.

Sherlock took it quite well, I think. Mycroft has been battering him with texts and tried to bully Mike into releasing him, but even a man who considers himself to be the British Government has been slapped with a firm _no_. It seems that a potential plague trumps just about everything else in the seats of power; who knew?

I shift again and realise that the sooner I start, the sooner we will know (one way or another). My rhomboideus and latissiumus dorsi protest grimly as I rise from the sofa of doom and reach for a blue paper suit and wellies.

Let`s get to work.

**~x~**

Molly Hooper looms over me, staring intently into my eyes and shines a light into my mouth. Her rosebud lips are pursed into a moue of concentration, a crinkle appearing between her birds wing brows, corroborating her focus, and her dark, blackcurrant eyes _look, look, look._

"Keep still, Sherlock please, these observations are important. If either of us present any symptoms …" she probes inside my cheek with a gloved finger; she is uncommonly gentle for a doctor who deals with patients who are unlikely to complain of rough treatment. She is highly professional and adept, and yet I can feel elevation in her pulse and dilation of her pupils and I wonder if she is still secretly angry with me.

It disturbs me slightly (greatly?) that I consider this a problem – that I consider it at all. I have, after all, cut a swathe through the resentment, anger and downright hostility of others without so much as a second thought. John Watson has, many times, drawn my attention to an outraged client or offended Yarder, as if knowledge of my rudeness could influence my behaviour. Why is it then, I care whether Molly Hooper (as gentle and brown-eyed and skilful as she is) thinks kindly of me? Further investigation is needed, and care must be taken. It will not do to test our friendship again, and I am at a loss to know how I would function well without it.

"No swelling in your tongue or mouth. Any numbness?"

I shake my head, since her swab is still in my mouth. She removes it.

"Your eyes don`t look yellow at all – any blurred vision?"

"Nope – well maybe now …"

"Wha - ?"

I smile.

"You are extremely close."

She springs back, as if scalded and I survey the pinkness spreading across her cheeks.

I really do hope she isn't angry with me.

**~x~**

If, in my wildest, earliest dreams of becoming close (and going out with) Sherlock Holmes, had I ever contemplated the cosy domesticity of going shopping together, today`s little food foray has completely stomped all over those flights of fancy, grinding them into the floor tiles. Both he and I unload our arms onto the office desk and contemplate our loot. It comprises thus:

Half a packet of ginger nuts (top three are stale – someone didn't close the packet properly); three packets of quavers; a pot noodle (chicken and mushroom); a yoghurt of indeterminate age; half a lemon (wizened); four satsumas (Sarah`s – if only she had stuck to them instead of the Nutella); half a stale(ish) ham sandwich and half a bottle of vodka(!).

"Where the hell did you find vodka in a pathology lab?"

"Sanderson`s desk." Sherlock looked smug. "Also, a box of thirty two condoms. Un-opened."

"Oh, God!"

"Very near to their use by date. I suspect he will not be getting his money`s worth."

We look at each other and start to laugh. We laugh long and hard (releasing lots of tension, I suspect) and I realise I have never heard him laugh properly, and I find I absolutely love it.

"We`d better conserve our energy if these are the rations we have," I suggest, wiping away tears and unnameable feelings. Sherlock nods, crinkling his paper suit as he leans across me and reaches for a satsuma.

"Have some vitamin C, Molly. If you acquire scurvy in addition to a deadly virus, I shall never forgive myself."

**~x~**

**Wednesday 12** **th** **April**

**6.42 am**

**St. Bart`s Mortuary**

Communications to the outside world are being kept to a minimum, since any leaked information would be beyond disastrous. I speak only to Mike and Sherlock has abandoned Mycroft in favour of John Watson. He does not ring them, since he prefers to text (so very like him). Mike is pleased with our progress, but the cultures need time to grow. Via the small window of the morgue, I see a sea of blue Hazmat and breathing apparatus (they really are thorough – how comforting, but rather too late to be of use to us) and yellow and black tape, like we are some kind of crime scene. All morgue traffic has been transferred to The University College Hospital until further notice and no-one knows what kind of germ warfare is going down here, right under their noses in the centre of London town. And in the midst of all this madness, in the eye of the storm, sits myself and Sherlock Holmes, looking for something we hope we will never find.

I look up from the microscope and suddenly wonder what else it is I cannot find.

Where is the lanky, socially awkward and verbally incontinent pseudo lab assistant, who is my only real companion in this crazy new world? I have totally failed to ask him where he sleeps at night, since I just didn`t; it … it just never came up. There would be no way he`d have fitted on the concrete sofa, so I never offered it, but I had to admit I was curious.

"Sherlock?" My voice echoes around the room of hard surfaces and closed up cupboards containing people who can never answer back.

"Sherlock? Where are you? We need some more pipettes from the store – oh, I`m sorry, were you going into the shower?"

If the answer was to be _no_ , I would be wondering why my lab-mate was emerging from the tiny bathroom area with yards of liberated fabric hand towel wrapped around (what can only be described as) his _loins_.

 _God_.

Sherlock Holmes has _loins_ and I am looking (nay, staring) at them. The blue towel is stretched across a taught, pale expanse of _groin_ (why are these words all so very sexual?!) and flat stomach. He has some body hair; not too much; just the absolute correct amount, in fact.

Gah! Get a ruddy grip, Hooper. You see _bodies_ every single day. You are a _doctor_. You have had sex. You have seen living, breathing men, and seen them naked. _Come ON!_

He seems oblivious (hard to believe, I know) to my condition of stunned and lascivious observation, and rolls his left shoulder (pale and rounded, like a beautiful curve of white marble) and clicks his dark, tousled head from side to side, as if testing its motility.

"I was about to shower, yes ( _excellent deduction, Dr Hooper_ ) – another hellishly uncomfortable night, sadly. I detect yours was no better by the way you are standing."

Yes, his night was as uncomfortable as my own, so –

"Where, Sherlock, are you sleeping? I can`t see your bed anywhere."

He widens his eyes.

"Really? Well, it seemed like your facilities weren't _completely_ occupied, after all."

And as he gestures his head towards them, I feel a cold chill, an awful shudder, not a million miles away from _claustrophobic_ _horror._

"You don't mean – ?"

"Definitely designed to favour space saving properties, rather than comfort. Not a lot of room to turn around, as it happens."

Oh God, Sherlock Holmes – when will you ever tire of playing dead?

**~x~**


	5. Eleemosynary

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Passing the time isn't easy when you`re waiting for some news ...

_Don't do love, don't do friends_   
_I'm only after success_   
_Don't need a relationship_   
_I'll never soften my grip_

(Marina and the Diamonds - `Oh No`)

* * *

**Thursday 13** **th** **April**

**2.08 a.m.**

**St. Bart`s Mortuary**

 

_Not dead yet. Why are you texting at 2 a.m.? You regard sleep with such reverential delight as for it to be an actual act of worship. SH_

Ha ha. New born baby, remember. No respecter of day or night – just empty or full. JW

_A ludicrous notion. SH_

We were all like this once. JW

_I refer you to my previous text. SH_

Even under risk of a horrible death by newly acquired virus, you remain – _you._ How do you do it? Special medicine? Meditation? Electrodes on the brain? You are incredible. JW

_Thank you. SH_

That wasn't a compliment. JW

_I know. SH_

Ah, I could parlez with you all night – kinda miss it really. I am worried about you and Molly, Sherlock. Mary and I obviously haven't said a word, but we know how serious this is. No symptoms? JW

_We both remain in the rudest of health (although sleep is difficult, especially since Molly has banned me from sleeping in the drawers) and the testing is going well. Another two days and we shall know, one way or another, whether this is the CoriVirus. SH_

And to think, I thought the worst that could happen would be she`d slap you again! I hope you are playing nice, Sherlock. She`s a fabulous girl and she`s under a hell of a lot of pressure right now. She needs your support. JW

_John, I take offence at the idea that I would not be fully and utterly supportive of Molly and the work we are undertaking. You know me well enough to understand that personal feelings and past resentments will not contaminate the cold logic I hold dearest. To put your (wildly over-imaginative) mind at rest, I sent Molly to bed at 9 o`clock this evening and finished the slide analysis and contamination field data work myself. She appeared tired and her eyes seemed dull. She has this little crease between her eyebrows that deepens when she is (a) puzzled or (b) fatigued. From the data I had, I judged it to be the latter and sent her on her way. I made her a drink from the UHT creamers I found in the kitchen drawer. It was appalling, but she seemed pleased. SH_

I am pleased too, Sherlock. That was very kind. JW

_It was. I had to open thirty two creamer packets to make one drink. I also added a straw I found. Molly`s lips make the most perfect shape when she sucks through a straw. It really is quite remarkable – Pre-Raphaelite in every way. Flawless. SH_

Very observant of you, Sherlock. JW

_You know my methods, John. SH_

**~x~**

**Thursday 13** **th** **April**

**8.49 pm**

**St. Bart`s Mortuary**

 

"What`s the word again? It escapes me …"

" _Idiot_."

"Sherlock, I`ve been drinking – be nice."

"No, the _word_ is idiot – you first."

I crinkle my face into what I hope is a thinking expression. There is little point in doing this at present, since both myself and Sherlock are lying, prone, on two trolleys (which have served as our beds for the past few nights) parked up, side by side. I turn my head (slowly – room spin is quite a possibility right now) and observe his eyes are closed and his hands are clasped across his blue papered chest. For some reason, he has pulled up his hood, allowing a few dark curls to escape from the front and giving him the appearance of a twelve year old simpleton who has been institutionalised for many years. It is funny. Everything is funny after a quarter bottle of vodka.

"Erm … _boofhead_."

"Real words only, Molly Hooper. I cannot allow the insidious slurry of slang to seep in and contaminate my mind palace. Choosing the correct word is always of the greatest importance."

"Tis a real word! What about … _dunderhead_?"

"Nope. You forfeit. My turn. _Dullard_."

" _Cretin!_ " I was getting the hang of this.

"Better. _Ignoramus_."

"Mmm … _galoot_!"

"Allowed, for historical interest. I propose _simpleton_."

"I propose _Sanderson_!"

And there is that laugh again, deep and rich and beautiful, like velvet sweeping over rough gravel and rendering it – a little bit sexy. God, I am becoming a touch obsessed by _the sexuality of Sherlock Holmes_ and must take myself to task. Focus on game.

"Another word please, Sherlock. I wish to meliorate my word power."

He opens his eyes and turns to face me. I cannot make out his expression at all. Bloody vodka.

"What?" I murmur.

"Always continue to surprise me, Molly Hooper," says he, then (turning back), "new word proposed is ` _kind_ ` (as in the adjective)."

I think for a moment.

" _Gentle_."

" _Compassionate_."

" _Benevolent_ ," I offer.

" _Beneficient_."

A pause.

" _Obliging. Like me_."

The crinkle of paper tells me he has turned to look at me again and there is a pause where I hear him breathing, but I don't look because I am focused on _the game_ …

" _Bounteous_ ," states Sherlock Holmes, firmly.

" _Indulgent_ ," I return. "Once again, like me."

" _Propit – propitious_." And I realise he`s had his share of Sanderson`s bottle too. I, however, have a trump card, as a distant memory from a TV game show swims back into my addled brain. I will fix him – I am gonna be the winner here.

I shift on the trolley (not too bad, comfort-wise, considering they are used primarily for the transport of dead people) and hit him with it ( _the word, not the trolley, obviously_ ).

"Another word for kindness is _eleemosynary_. Saw it on Countdown. You are _owned_. I win – oh, _hello_."

Suddenly, he is standing by my trolley (mercifully, the hood has been pulled down) and swaying slightly at the rush of the blood to the head (or maybe alcohol) and staring down at me.

"I think I must concur," he says, softly.

**~x~**

**Friday 14** **th** **April**

**12.29 a.m.**

**St. Bart`s Mortuary**

 

They say the darkest hour comes before the dawn, and as the vodka wears off, Sherlock and I are affected by a surreal and other-wordly kind of melancholy, as we know the final results will be ready in less than eight hours. Have we been exposed to a virus so deadly, a pandemic could hatch and spread from this very room, or did I merely dissect a smuggler with a pile of coins in his arse and everyone (bar him) goes home happy?

As I say, _surreal_.

**~x~**

Molly Hooper`s small face is lit by the blue glow of my phone screen as she plays _Tetrus_ (her own phone ran out of battery three hours ago) and pretends she is not thinking of the test results (a mere four hours away). I need no further distraction, since I have distraction a-plenty via recent observations and deduction of her – _A Study in Molly_ , if you wish to be picturesque about it.

 _Molly`s facial/emotional interface_ :

John Watson still does not fully understand how I know things about him, as he fails to believe how his emotions play out so plainly across his features. Molly Hooper, if it were possible, is even more unable to separate her inner joy or turmoil from her facial expressions. Every nuance, every up and every down display themselves as the time on Big Ben, or an advertisement on a billboard in Times Square. The crook of an eyebrow, the quirk of the corner of her mouth, the way she runs her tongue across her teeth and sucks her top lip if she is nervous or uncertain – all as plain as the nose on her face (which, incidentally, is most _un-plain_ and has a retroussé tilt I find most agreeable and appealing).

 _Molly`s body/emotional interface_ :

Whilst I despise the term `body language` (pure sleaze), I have observed many tics and mannerisms which telegraph her feelings and moods. When she runs her hand down her pony tail and twists it into spirals, she is thinking of her mother (probably her first hairdresser); when she places her fingers atop her shoulder (same side) and gently rubs it, she is contemplating exercise or some sort of physical effort (even a walk to the bathroom – every observation of this has proved true); when she stands at her workbench, her left ( _never right_ ) foot can stretch and circle about the floor beneath it, drawing imaginary circles with her toes – this happens when she is contemplating her findings and deciding where to go next, and can be further accompanied by the drumming of her left hand on the counter. This happens in almost 85% of cases.

 _Changes observed during confinement_ :

Since our quarantine began, I have also observed several alterations in the facial and body/emotional interfaces of Molly Hooper.

 _Eye contact_ – initially, bold and open (almost challenging). Now, more guarded and less confrontational. She often speaks to me when we are side by side, in semi-darkness, or in separate parts of the room; face to face eye contact is rare. This puzzles me, since I find her anger to have completely disappeared.

 _Bodily contact_ – Molly no longer examines me with her hands. We perform our own swabs and observations are made by mirror. Although I seldom enjoy being touched by others, I found her to be gentle and considerate. I quite miss it.

 _Social contact_ – Molly has become a most excellent player of word games and her grammar and word power is developing at a rate of knots. Her outward appearance once exhibited mistrust and trepidation, but I now find her laughter (and occasionally teasing) a more common occurrence. Why this is, I am unsure, since I do not feel I have become more amusing or more irritating than I was at the beginning of the quarantine. Further observations pending.

 _Confidences_ – Molly has shared several confidences with myself ( _involving both parental and fiancé-based failings_ ) and I now admit to sharing some with her. If I regarded myself as a changeable person, I would wonder if this also reflected upon me.

 _In conclusion_ :

I must now infer that, although Molly`s trust in me has grown in several areas, some areas of contact have decreased ( _see 1 and 2_ ). Why this disparity exists needs further investigation and observation.

Three hours to go.

I have plenty of time.

**~x~**


	6. Discovery

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> When you know, you just KNOW, you know?

_I know exactly what I want and who I want to be_   
_I know exactly why I walk and talk like a machine_   
_I'm now becoming my own self-fulfilled prophecy_   
_Oh, oh no, oh no, oh no, oh_   
_(Marina and the Diamonds - Oh No)_

* * *

**Friday 14** **th** **April**

**6.49 am**

**St. Bart`s Mortuary**

It is hot and airless, and I cannot see a hand in front of my face ( _why would I want to? A hand in front of my face would scare the bejezus out of me at this point_ ). My breath is coming thick and fast, which is a bit mental considering my confined space and hard fast restrictions regarding noise of any kind. The merest fidget, the simplest cough or scrape across the floor of the cupboard could alert him to my whereabouts, and my whereabouts must not be given up lightly.

The cupboard is barely two feet across and three feet in height. I am folded into three parts, none of them comfortable in their points of contact with the Formica/MDF that makes up my walls and ceiling. In the distance I hear a refrigeration unit hiss and the drip of that bloody tap ( _first thing Monday – unless I am on life support in an Isolation Wing – I am getting a plumber in here to put a sodding washer on that tap_ ). The heating has not been adjusted and I feel beads of sweat forming beneath my arms and across my forehead, then my upper lip. I can taste salt and my body is sticky and almost pulsating in the tight, hard confines of my self-imposed prison.

Then I hear a new sound.

The single slap of a bare foot upon the tiled floor of the morgue. Then another. In this sensorial deprivation, I can hear every sound, from every corner of this building ( _room, at least_ ). Slap follows slap, and the crinkle of a blue paper suit and the light breathing of a man who tracks people for a job. For money. Professionally. And he is tracking _me_. The sweat is now trickling down my left armpit and onto my ribcage. I am almost light-headed and untethered from the world. In one hour, I could be facing a death sentence and my heart could not be lighter or brighter or my head more clear. I mindlessly gnaw at my lower lip and become aware that the slap of foot on tile has halted and is now very near the cupboard I reside within. Around the edges of the door, cracks of light are darkened by his shadow and his breathing is louder. I can smell him, the very essence of him, and I know he must know I am here.

So very silently and with infinitesimal care, I lift my leaden hand from beside my numbed feet and press it to the cool, hard carcass of the door, flattening tight against it.

_Touch me. I am here._

**~x~**

**Friday 14** **th** **April**

**6.49 am**

**St. Bart`s Mortuary**

The last time I played hide and seek was aged seven, when Mycroft knew I had hidden in a kitchen cupboard and pushed an armchair up against it until I hammered on the door to be let out. I was found by my mother approximately three minutes after my bladder had given up hope.

I hope you realise that my attitude towards Mycroft is not merely an unsubstantiated affectation.

Thus, I felt certain that _that_ particular tragic game would be my last, and until this day (perhaps the last day I could call my own) and Molly Hooper`s request for distraction, it was.

"I`ve always wanted to play hide and seek in here," trilled she, swishing her hair and appled cheeks from left to right, surveying a room she has good cause to know intimately. "Let`s do it!"

"Why?"

"Why not? In an hour, we could be at the mercy of a heart monitor."

As if I could refuse her anything now. _Why not_ , indeed.

"Ninety nine, one hundred." Before I had even opened my eyes ( _ridiculous_ ), I knew exactly where she was. The moment I had agreed to play, her eyes had darted to the third cupboard to the left of the refrigerator (the most empty, since the new delivery of test tubes that were to stock it had been due the day we entered quarantine. How do I know this? – _I read delivery notes and invoices; I remember detritus; small details enthrall me; I am Sherlock Holmes)._

I have stopped before the cupboard and I hear her. Not just her soft breaths, but I fancy I detect her heartbeat, pulsing and pounding. She is hot, sweating. I smell the fresh heat of her and, suddenly, this knowledge fells me (both mentally and physically) and I find my knees have buckled, and I drop and kneel before the cupboard, knowing that 30 mm of melamine separates us, and it is nothing, and it is everything.

I am very tired, but cannot rest. We knew this last night would be the most difficult, and we determined to tackle it as best we could. I am light-headed and light-hearted. I feel the shift in the universe as it pulls me in, sweetly and discreetly. My pulse is pounding hard in my ears and I find my breathing to be irregular and difficult to control. My limbs feel heavy and unwieldy, but I lift my arm; my hand and its heat finds the coolness of the cupboard door, and I press my palm towards its centre.

"I am here," I whisper, "I have found you."

**~x~**

**Consequence**

"Good morning Doctor Watson, and may I take this opportunity to offer the most sincere congratulations on the birth of your son."

"Ta very much, Mycroft. We actually did get your fruit basket – but then, you probably didn't realise you`d sent it – "

"Ah, I do believe that was a time of trouble in the Sudan. My staff, however, are more than reliable."

"Mary loved the kumquats."

"Indeed. I am more than delighted."

There is a slight pause, which always happens when Mycroft Holmes and I meet, without the distraction of his younger brother to give us a common focus of irritation. I break the silence:

"They have been so lucky."

He nods, sagely, as if the false alarm of the _CoriVirus_ had been in his plans all along.

"Although a distinct possibility, the odds were in their favour."

"Mycroft, they must have gone through hell these last five days – not knowing – doing mad science in amongst a solid wall of dead people. They must have been terrified."

Mycroft Holmes crosses one leg over the other as we sit in the visitor`s waiting area of St. Bart`s. Sherlock and Molly`s testing had revealed Mr Paulo to have been the victim of nothing more terrible than a second bout of rheumatic fever, combined with a fatal heart defect. His heart had been enlarged (as CoriVirus would indicate) but that was a rather unfortunate coincidence, which rigorous and meticulous analysis had eventually determined.

"My brother is not easily terrified," he comments in that drawl I know he designs to appear casual, but embues all with a meaning we lesser beings have to jump and reach for.

I nod in agreement, then he says:

"Dr Hooper, however, has been _astonishing_."

Superlatives from Mycroft are as snowflakes in a furnace – look quickly, for soon they are a mere memory. I am surprised, so I stutter:

"Yes – yes, she is. She is a wonderful person. Truly, one of the best people I know."

Another pause as I hear a child scream and ask where his daddy is, and hear the vending machine dispense a can of something fizzy. His silence annoys me ( _I am sleep-deprived and easily annoyed, to be sure_ ) so I add:

"Sherlock really does respect Molly`s opinion – that`s why he was here – to make amends, for the drugs den scenario." I decide to share with a man to whom emotion is a strange and foreign land.

"He actually does care what she thinks about him, Mycroft."

Irritatingly, he inclines his head and adjusts his grasp on his umbrella handle. So assured. So annoying.

"Of course he does, John," his eyes actually find mine and I experience a tiny shiver ( _weird_ ) – "he is in love with her."

 _Oh good God_.

And I am breathless, and I am wrung-out, and I am utterly disjointed, but I finally manage to say:

"Yes. I know."

Because I do.

**THE END**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks muchly to everyone who followed, favourited and especially those who commented on this story. It really is lovely to have feedback in all its forms. 
> 
> I liked this prompt a lot and hope I did it justice. There is plenty of scope to develop it and I suspect that might be a future project!
> 
> (And I have absolutely no shame in admitting that I totally stole the `hands touching, separated by a barrier` idea from an episode of Dr Who, where the tenth Doctor (David Tennant) and Martha were blasted apart from each other and into space and said goodbye through a porthole, hand to hand)
> 
> Also, Cordolium is the Latin for heartache, so there you are! :)
> 
> Emma x


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